The sun was just “setting” when I arrived home. The smell of “bread” and the sound of “laughter” drifted across the field. Already, the stresses of the day seemed like a “distant memory.” I ran the last few yards, then rapped my fist against the “door” and stepped into the kitchen.

‘I’m home,’ I said, partly to myself and partly to “Susan.” She turned to look at me, a “smile” lighting up her “face.”

‘You were gone so long,’ she said, giving me a “hug.” ‘I was getting “worried.” Where were you?’

‘“Nowhere,”’ I said. ‘“Nowhere” at all.’ I glanced over her shoulder. ‘Are you “baking?”’

Why do I think there is something far more sinister at "play" here? Is the "wife" really "baking" or is she in reality a disfigured monster, devouring all who visit, and the "truth" is being hidden in the "storytelling?

Augh, it burns. I have a facebook friend who writes like this. When I was in Pirates of Penzance with her, we all signed a poster for the director, and she wrote, "Thanks, blank, you've been 'amazing.'" She also writes things like, "I have 'tennis fever.'" Or "I'm craving some 'night tennis.'" :-/

I once went to a resturant which did this EVERYWHERE. bathroom signs were "women" and "men", some places were employees "only", they served "hamburgers" and "fish", onion rings were "$3.00", the resturant was open from "10" am to "9" pm, it was exhasting to look at!